With My Mutely Jubilant Tongue Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Born in the silver forts and there you are, Alma:
Brown as the most auburns of snows in my bed:
And we lay together,
And I paint your copper cannons green with my tongue,
While the starving conquistadors filibuster
And the stars rust together until the night cannot close
And the horses and their riders are forced to waylay around
The Christmas tree with the little train and the presents I
Have bought for you during all of these weekdays,
As I run away underneath the busy overpasses praying that
I get back in time to do your dishes, to clean you like a mother
Cat with her kitten with my mutely jubilant tongue.